Carol never understood decaf. What's the point? The same with people who pour lo-fat milk over their Captain Crunch Berries. Maybe it's mental solice. She finds no comfort in denying her the full spice of her vices. She may as well suck on a cigarette without lighting it.

She pours herself an extra strong cup of coffee and is about to add her 2 packs of sugar - not Splenda, not NutriSweet, not Sweet-and-low - good old fucking fashioned sugar, when who walks into the employee break room but Amber, the bitchy blond from Finance, wearing a blouse cut so low her nipple almost show, teetering on stilletos so sharp they could punch holes through a 300 page manuscript.

Amber is about to open her mouth and speak. Carol knows this by the way Amber swings her hair around, as if that blow-dried sprayed out nest of bleached white frizzed mess is blocking her mouth from uttering the following bit of brilliance:

"I'm like, so stressed out today."